Party Like It’s Armageddon

The Devil is due any day.
He may come calling for His payment,
penurious mortgage of future existence.
May as well be merry,
cutting up carelessly without regard
for life or limb.
Might as well throw all riotous sins a celebration
like apocalypse is near.
Fear of approach to each potential moment
when suddenly a price must be paid,
so hoped to avoid —
Abrupt devaluation of dear bought skills,
once certified as worthy trade for authorized continuation.
No ardent wife nor devastated child to cry upon my grave,
or pray for my salvation.
No cause for pride to reveal
a noble station in which
my qualifications are uniquely required.
Merely these paltry hours
of breathing free
that I might waste in pleading
my wretched case.
Much more wise to spin through this last act,
grab a  final chance
to loose awareness as mad and joyful dance,
allow fate’s fire to consume completely.
Leave Satan waiting well past statutory expiration.
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